


Blue Love

by Penny_Jamieson



Series: Franedict [1]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: DaddyBatch, F/M, RPF, RPS - Freeform, Rockabilly, Romance, Sexual Content, Swearing, pin up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:16:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penny_Jamieson/pseuds/Penny_Jamieson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/><a href="http://de.tinypic.com?ref=rj1iq1"></a>
    <br/><img/></p>
</div><p>When Benedict Cumberbatch meets Tom Hiddleston's live-in housekeeper he cannot help but be intrigued by her different looks and her peregrine behavior. What in her past made her so determined to stay single? Will Benedict be able to coax her heart out of it's prison?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I take liberties with timelines and geography where they do not fit the plot.
> 
> All characters, even when based on real people, are a pure figment of my imagination.

It had been four weeks since Fran started to work as Tom Hiddleston's housekeeper yet so far she hadn't met any of his famous friends or co-workers. Tonight that was about to change. Tom had an important business meeting with Benedict Cumberbatch and he had asked Fran to prepare dinner for them. Fran was a good cook but she was still very nervous. Would her skills function on auto-pilot while the conscience part of her brain melted in Benedict's presence?

She had chosen dishes that she had made a dozen times and that never failed her. She set up the dining area well before lunch giving her time to shower, dress and put on make up throughout the afternoon starting the evening as relaxed as possible.

Fran had just put the meat in the pan when the doorbell rang. Not wanting to spoil the delicate dish, she quickly rushed to the other side of the room, buzzed the door open and returned to the oven immediately. When she heard the front door being opened, she yelled out: “I’m in the kitchen. You’re really late. Just your luck, that Benedict’s always running late.”

She turned around to greet Tom.

“Except for today it seem.” Fran exhaled deeply.”Mr. Cumberbatch, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Fran, Tom’s housekeeper. I’m afraid he’s running late, but I do expect him any time now.”

“Hi Fran, Benedict, please. Tom mentioned he had a live-in housekeeper now, but he didn't mention how pretty she was.”

Fran couldn't help blushing but she was hell-bent on not letting her inner fangirl get the better of her. Ignoring the compliment she replied “Can I get you anything to drink while you’re waiting? Water, coffee, tea or rather some beer or wine?”

“Thank you, I’ll just help myself. Tom is usually not much of a host when I’m over. And it seems your attention is needed elsewhere.”

He gesturing at the oven where a thin light grey column of smoke rose from the pan.

“Shit.” Fran had almost forgotten about the filet. When she turned it over she was relieved to see that while it was dark brown it had not actually been scorched. She took it out of the pan and arranged it in a baking dish topping it off with the pesto she had prepared earlier. Then she turned her attention back to Benedict who had in the meantime poured himself a glass of red wine.

“How was the traffic from Bicester? Tom mentioned you were shooting out there today.”  
 _‘_ _And my tumblr dashboard confirmed that.’_ Fran added in her mind.

“Yeah, I was. It wasn't too bad actually. Which explains why I made it here on time.” Benedict chuckled.

Fran instantly blushed. She put on her biggest smile and replied “And that’s more than we can say about Mr. Perfect today, isn't it? It’s so not like him. He hasn't even called in to say he was running late. Did he leave a message with you?”

“I don’t think so.” Benedict pulled out his mobile from the back pocket, checking its screen. “Nope. No messages.”

“I’m gonna give him 5 more minutes before…” Fran was interrupted by the land line ringing. “Well, I bet that’s him."  
She answered the phone. "Hiddleston residency.”

She leaned against the counter, looking at Benedict. “Hi Tom. … Uh-huh. … Uh-huh. … Yeah, he’s here. … Sure, hang on.”

She handed the phone to Benedict. “He wants to talk to you.”

Fran turned her attention to the salad, so as not to be eavesdropping on Benedict, although she was pretty sure, Tom was just repeating what he had told her. His fight-choreographer at the Donmar was unhappy with how the scene they had been working on today had developed and since Tom was leaving London for almost three weeks shortly he wanted to work on it some more. That meant that Tom was not going to be home for at least another hour, more likely two.

Fran’s mind came up with a thousand things at once. _  
Surely Benedict would leave now. Why would he spend his evening with her? But he must also be hungry. Tom had mentioned before how on these small budget movies the schedule was always so tight, they barely had time to eat. And – if Tumblr could be trusted in that regard – Benedict liked to eat. So maybe he would stay. At least for dinner. Maybe even waiting for Tom, if this meeting was indeed as important as Tom had made it sound._ _Which in return meant, that Fran got to spend one-on-one time with her biggest celeb crush. How was she going to survive without making a fool of herself?_

She tried to forget everything she had read about Benedict’s private life and a whole bunch of other details about his career. She didn't want to look like the know-it-all fangirl she really was.

“Sure, I understand, Tommy. Don’t worry about it. See you then.” Benedict ended the call and Fran took the phone from him to put it back into its docking station.

“Tom’s stuck in fight rehearsal at the Donmar’s.” Benedict confirmed, looking almost as unsure on how to go on, as Fran felt.

“I bet you are hungry. Let me finish your portion of dinner and then Tom can eat whenever he makes it home. How does that sound?”

“Are you going to join me?”

“I had planned to eat in the kitchen, so that you and Tom could have your super-secret talk, but I guess I can join you now.”

“Super-secret talk?” Benedict looked at her confused.

“Yeah. About your next project. He wouldn't tell me what it was about though.”

Fran began to arrange the starter, a light herb mousse, on two plates. She added some of the prepared vegetables and looked at the dish with satisfaction. Yes, it looked just like something you’d get in a restaurant. When she lifted her head, she saw Benedict stare at her confused.

“What?”

She turned again to take the bread out of the oven, where she had kept it, so it would still be warm when eaten, then turned up the heat and put the main course on the rack.

“Well, he hasn't told me anything about a super-secret project either.”

“Really? That’s odd.”

Fran arranged the plates and the bread basket on a wooden tray, picked it up and started walking toward the dining room.

“If you please, sir.” She said overly civilized, pretending to be a waitress in a posh restaurant.

The room was lit by several floor lights and on the table candles cast an inviting glow onto the perfectly laid table. Two place settings opposite from each other held all the utensils and glasses that would be needed for the three course meal.

“Whoa, that’s posh. Tom usually serves take out and if we both had a long day it’s straight out of the container. I didn't even know he had all that fancy tableware.” Benedict seemed to be impressed.

“He didn't.” Fran chuckled. “When I asked him what sort of dinner he wanted me to cook, he said that he had thought about going to an upscale restaurant, but he didn't want anyone accidentally catching any of the details of your project, which is why the two of you were discussing it here. I enjoy cooking and setting up a lavish table when I have the time, so I went on a bit of a shopping spree yesterday. Most of it is from IKEA though.” Fran smiled at Benedict conspiratorial. “Please, sit down.”

Benedict had brought his wine glass and set it next to one of the plates.

“If this were indeed an upscale restaurant, wouldn't I hold out the chair for you?”

“You Brits are such gentleman. Hang on a second.”

Fran replaced the delicately folded napkins with the starters, put the bread basket in the middle of the table and the now empty tray on the sideboard. She beamed up at Benedict.

“Sir.”

He returned her smile and pulled out the chair for Fran, helping her adjust it once she sat down. When he had seated himself Fran offered him some bread.

“Guten Appetit.” Fran said and lifted her fork.

“Was that German?”

“Oh, shoot, yes. Sometimes autopilot takes over and I forget to speak English. Enjoy your meal.”

“So you’re German then. I wouldn't have guessed. You hardly have an accent at all. If anything, you sound like an American.”

“I take that as a compliment. When I was done with school, I lived in Alaska for a year. It’s amazing how much you pick up, when you’re forced to speak a language 24/7.”

“Alaska? What made you choose Alaska?”

“Really? Like Tibet is the go-to choice for a gap year.”

_'Shit. Don’t mention any personal information he hasn't talked about!_ ' Fran reminded herself. Benedict smiled.

“Touché. So you know about Tibet? What else do you know about me?”

Fran wasn't feeling half as confident on the inside as she tried to appear on the outside.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. I read the Empire and the Time magazine. And occasionally watch Top Gear and Graham Norton. Don’t you get bored having to tell the same old stories over and over again? Not that they aren't great stories, I mean Tibet, and the abduction in South Africa – those aren't your everyday stories, but still, after a while it must get kind of old.”

Benedict put down his fork and swallowed before he answered her question.

“Sometimes, yes. But what’s the alternative? I value my privacy, as do most of my friends. I’d rather not drag my private life out into the open. Plus it’s not really that interesting to begin with.”

“If it’s anything like Tom’s then you’re right. Tibetans monks watching Braveheart is a far better story than saying that your work week consisted of endless hours of reading scripts, learning lines and that the highlight of your week was fetching milk from the supermarket around the corner without having to do an “I’m Loki of Asgard” impression for the cashier. Although, in your case that would probably be really funny. The cashier looking at you all stern and then saying something like ‘I shall scan your purchases, over and over, until my arm weakens. Now, shall we begin?’”

Fran giggled at her own joke, forgetting that she wasn't fangirling with her best friend Isa, but actually talking to said actor. When she caught Benedict’s face, head tilted slightly down, eye brows raised, looking at her as if he was saying “Really?” she bit her lower lip, trying to suppress the laughter.

“Sorry, but not sorry. I tease Tom about it all the time. It’s your own fault for being so damn courteous with your fans. Anyway,” Fran changed the subject. “Do you like the starter? Is it okay?”

Benedict was intrigued by Fran’s behavior. It was clear that she knew enough about him to be counted as a member of the Cumbercollective, yet she didn't seem to be freaking out over the fact that she had dinner with him. No flailing, loss of words or any of the other telltale signs of a fan having a meltdown in his presence. In fact she seemed to be as casual about his fame as his friends who were in the business too and constantly picked at each other when a fandom was getting a bit overexcited.

And while she was not the type of woman he usually went for she was definitely attracting his attention. Her dark hair was put up in Victory rolls, the lengths covered with a snood. Bright green eyes sparkled over full, cherry red lips. Her curvaceous body was round in all the right places, her hourglass figure perfectly proportioned to her short frame which she showed off in a halterneck top and Capri pants paired with high heels. He had never understood why Hollywood was trying to tell women that it was attractive to be a stick. Benedict definitely preferred to have some meat under his fingers when he caressed a woman’s body.

He tried to imagine what she would feel like without her clothes on, when he ran his hands over her round bum, which looked like it could belong to a Latina rather than a German. Come to think of it, he never had a German girl before. Benedict startled when Fran waved her hand in front of his face.

“Helloooo? Anyone home?”

“Yeah, sorry. What did you say?”

Fran giggled. “A penny for your thoughts.”

Benedict wouldn't have told her for a million pounds, let alone a penny.

“I asked if the food was okay?”

“Yes, it’s very tasty.” He picked up the bread roll from his plate, pointing it towards Fran. “This bread is incredibly good. Where did you buy it?”

He took a big bite, chewing while he waited for Fran’s answer.

“I didn't buy it. As much as I love London, bread is something you Brits know nothing about. But don’t be offended, practically no one outside Germany or Austria does. I make my own, using my grandma’s recipe. Usually it's baked in a wood-stove but here I have to make do with a gas oven. Speaking of ovens I better check on the main course." 

Benedict's eyes followed Fran's gently swaying hips while he watched her leave the room. 

'I wouldn't mind a taste of her for dessert."


	2. Chapter 2

Fran made sure Benedict hadn't followed her into the kitchen before she took out her phone and opened What's App to message Isa.

"OMFG! Tom is stuck at work and I'm having dinner with Benedict Cumberbatch! ALONE!!!!"  
 _Sent by Fran at 20:42_

"Wut? Details! Spill it!"  
 _Sent by Isa at 20:42_

"I don't have much time right now. But he looks amazing. Grey button down shirt with a white T underneath, black dress pants, grey flat hat. THE flat hat. Deaded."  
 _Sent by Fran at 20:43_

"Do I need to call 911?"  
 _Sent by Isa at 20:44_

"If you don't hear from me by midnight, YES! Gotta take the meat out of the oven. TTYL"  
 _Sent by Fran at 20:44_

Fran and Isabelle were both educated women in their thirties. Yet their messages often relapsed to the vocabulary of a ten year old. Especially when the topic of conversation revolved around their favourite British actors.

"Do you mind if I put on some music?"

Fran had not heard Benedict come in and she hurried to blacken her phone screen.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you."

"It's okay. What did you want to know?"

"Any objections to music?"

"Not at all. That is as long as you don't put on Sigur Rós. I know you and Tom love that band but I just cannot listen to their music. Makes me depressed."

"Honestly? They are one of my preferred bands. I see them perform live every chance I get. But I'm sure I can find something else. Any preferences?"

"I like pretty much any music from classical to jazz to current rock and pop even if this..." She gestured toward her hair. "suggests otherwise."

"Anything but ethereal post-rock. Got it. I'll just look over Tom's selection."

When Fran returned to the dining area ten minutes later U2's "Where The Streets Have No Name" poured from the speakers. Benedict stood by the window. He had pulled the curtain back a bit and stared at the grey sky.

"The weather forecast predicts rain for tomorrow afternoon."

"I sure hope they are wrong. We have an outdoor shoot planned for tomorrow."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed."

"Thanks. Is U2 okay?" Benedict wanted to know while they both sat back down.

"Excellent choice. Joshua Tree is my favourite album of theirs. I hope you don’t have to watch your weight anymore now that Sherlock wrapped. Or are you still on a diet?”

“Thank God no. As much as I enjoy playing him, the dieting is a pain in the ass. And this smells delicious. What is it?”

“Pork filet in a pesto and parmesan crust with a side dish of Spaetzle, a German version of noodles, and sautéd cep mushrooms.”

Fran fixated Benedict cutting through his meat which to her delight was perfectly pink on the inside. He scooped some Spaetzle and mushrooms on his fork and brought it to his mouth. A small moan escaped him while he chewed with his eyes closed.

“This is brilliant. Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“When I studied for my business bachelor cooking was a way to relief stress. And I was stressed out a lot.” Fran shrugged her shoulders. “Not that my roommates complained over roast beef instead of ramen noodles. By the time I received my degree I was better at preparing a three course meal then drawing up annual accounts.”

“So you decided to pursue a career in cooking rather than sticking with economics.”

“Not really. I was the head of accounting for a large electronics company until about a year ago. I was pretty good at my job if I dare say so myself.”

“I don’t mean to be rude but what made you want to be a live-in housekeeper then?”

“Nothing. I didn’t choose to become a housekeeper. It chose me. Or rather – Tom did.”

Benedict swallowed hard.

“You know you can’t say something like that and not follow up with details.”

Fran put her cutlery down. She rubbed her eyebrow with her left hand.

“Uhm… Where do I even start? The last year was not exactly the best of my life. My relationship ended after almost a decade. Someone very dear to me died in a car accident. I missed a lot of days at work because of a longsome illness. In the end I lost my job. There was nothing left of the life I had made for myself. In a spur of the moment decision I sold everything I had and came to London on the next available flight.”

Benedict couldn’t take his eyes of Fran who stared out of the window lost in thought. All the cheeriness had vanished from her eyes. In the sudden silence U2’s “With or Without You” seemed far too loud and far too intimate. He rubbed the back of his neck. Why had he even brought the subject up? He of all people valued his privacy and protected it every chance he got. Especially when someone put him on the spot as he had just done with Fran. Could he change the topic without making it obvious?

_“And you give yourself away…”_

Bono’s voice crept into Fran’s mind snapping her out of her pondering. She shook her head and shoulders as if she needed to free herself from the past once again. When she looked at Benedict again she had a huge smile on her face but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Well, turns out it’s next to impossible to get a job as an accountant when you have little knowledge of UK tax laws. Three months later I found myself sitting on a park bench at 6 am on a Sunday morning. I was trying to muster up the courage to call my parents and tell them that I failed and could they please lend me the money to fly home. I dreaded that call cause they were against me coming to London in the first place and I so much hate to admit defeat.”

“I know no one who’d enjoy making a call like that.”

Fran nodded in agreement.

“Along comes Tom on his morning run, ridiculously cheerful. I mean who in their right mind gets out of bed at 5.30 on a Sunday morning? Voluntarily? And in a good mood?”

Benedict chuckled. “He’s been trying to make me join him for months. Over. My. Dead. Body.”

“Tom's radar for the feelings of people around him is out of this world. Even with complete strangers. He sensed that I needed someone to talk to. The “Not wanting to disappoint my parents” thing kind of hit home with Tom.”

“Without a doubt. Back when we were both young and unknown actors Tom would never have asked his father for money. He would rather have gone without food for a week or slept under a bridge. James never made a secret out of his disapproval for Tom’s career choices then.”

“Tom offered to let me stay in his guest room until I finished the classes I need to take to be an accountant in the UK. I was desperate and as good as homeless so I accepted. I figured that Tom “I’m a freaking knight in shiny armor.” Hiddleston’s house was safer than a park bench."

Benedict raised his eyebrow. “That was very, uhm, kind of him.”

“Plain stupid was what that was. For all he knew I could have been a professional swindler or worse: a fan girl madly in love with him.”

Benedict stopped his fork midway to his mouth not sure how to react.

“Oh, your face right now. Priceless.”

He crinkled his nose tilting his head to the left.

"Aren't we funny? Whose idea was the housekeeper scheme then?”

“Luke’s. To say Tom's idea of taking me in appalled him is the understatement of the year. Luke argued that as an employed housekeeper I would have insurance and stuff. I think he just wanted my social security number to do a background check on me. Not that I blame him.”

“Bless that boy’s heart. Tom is not making his job easy.”

“Not by a long shot. Luke will need a vacation after their Thor 2 promotion tour next month.”

Benedict appreciated Fran’s effort to steer their conversation back to lighter topics. The tingle from earlier that night seemed to want to make itself at home in his stomach. It was so refreshing to meet a woman who spoke her mind instead of trying to impress or please him. And even when no one said anything at all he still enjoyed her company.

 _Tom was a lucky man to come home to Fran’s food after a long day. And her company._ Given his friend’s way of charming the ladies Benedict imagined the dessert came with a little extra TLC on top.

 _Who would have started seducing the other? Tom had this need to make the most of every hand life dealt him. But then he would never take advantage of a woman who may feel indebted to him. And judging by the little Benedict knew about Fran she had no problem with giving in to a sudden desire either_.

Pictures of entangled bodies sent a sharp pain to Benedict’s loins. He rubbed his hands up and down his thigh grounding himself in the present again when his phone rang. He pulled it out of his back pocket to check the caller ID.

“Just my friend Adam. I’ll call him back later.”

“No, please get it. I’ll fetch the pudding in the meantime? Coffee or tea?”

“Hi Adam. Hang on a second. Coffee, please, black, 2 sugar. Thank you. What’s up, mate?”

“Did you go out to dinner alone since your meeting with Tom fell through? I was just going to ask you, if you wanted to swing by our place in an hour or so.”

“No, I’m at Tom’s place waiting for him. What do you mean since my meeting with Tom fell through? What gives you that idea?”

“Uhm, because I just saw him come out of the Caffe Nero down the street from the Donmar like a minute ago.”

“Are you sure it was Tom?”

“His face is all over the fucking place with those freaking Coriolanus posters. I’m pretty sure that was him.”

“Huh. Well, than he shouldn’t be too long now before he’s here. Thanks for the call, mate. We’ll make plans later this week, depending on how filming comes along, 'kay?”

Benedict stared at his phone unsure what to make of the call. It was so unlike Tom to set him up. He still held the phone when Fran came back. This time she had filled her tray with fragrant coffee and two glasses with a creamy dessert.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes. Adam had just mixed something up. That pudding looks fantastic. What is it?”

“Take an educated guess.”

Benedict loaded some of the dessert on his spoon, trying to get a bit of every layer, then tasting it. His face lit up when he recognized the familiar taste.

“Banoffe pie! Sort of. I have never seen it served like this. Ah, that’s my favourite."

 

Forty-five minutes later Tom unlocked the door to his apartment. He hung his coat and went straight for the dining area only to find it deserted. Muffled voices came from the roof-deck. Benedict leaned against the banister enjoying an after dinner cigarette. Fran laid on a sun lounger with a woolen blanket over her feet and a cup of tea clutched in her hands.

“I think you’re the first person to actually forbid me to talk about how Sherlock did it.”

“I waited almost two years to find out. I will not have it spoiled so close to the actual air date. So unless you’re keen on proofing that whatever Steven and Mark came up with works in reality you better shush.”

“I can come back another time if I am interrupting.”

“Oh hey Tom. I didn’t hear you come in.” Fran put her tea on a small side table. “You must be so hungry. I’ll fix your dinner right away.”

Tom wanted to tell her there was no hurry but Fran was already inside. He hugged Benedict.

“Hey mate. Sorry it took so long. Richard can be kind of finicky when it comes to his fight choreography.”

“I bet he can. Are the rehearsal rooms at the Caffe Nero as big as the ones at the Donmar?”

Benedict steamed out his cigarette in a small metal ashtray. Tom’s grabbed a chair and sat facing Benedict. He was in no hurry to explain himself.

“My mate Adam Ackland saw you leave."

Tom stretched his legs getting comfortable in his chair.

"I had turned down his dinner invitation for tonight so he called to check if I wanted to eat at their place after all.”

“Fran’s food is amazing, right? It’s a real blessing that I need to work out more for Coriolanus. Did the two of you have a nice evening anyway?”

Benedict crossed his arms. Tom usually wore his heart on his sleeve. Why was he beating around the bush like this?

“I cannot speak for her but I did. She is a smart woman, well read, knows her Shakespeare. You must like that.”

“Not bad looking either, huh?”

“If you fancy Fran that much why don’t you hit on her? You shouldn't have too much trouble wooing her.”

“I tried.”

“But?”

“She brushed me off. Said that she’s in love with someone else.”

“Her ex?”

“According to her someone who doesn't even know she exists. But she has his picture as her phone lock screen and her desktop background. Quite a handsome bloke.”

Tom stood up and patted Benedict on his back.

“I just made sure that someone knows she exists.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Plip, plop, plip, plop.”

One by one droplets of water landed on the rusty table. They left a trail across the top and down the bent leg until they gathered in a small crimson colored puddle on the floor. The iron stench filling the air left a bad taste it in Benedict’s mouth. Some of the water followed the cracks in the floor and seeped into the fabric of his dress pants. The concrete had sucked all the warmth out of his body about half an hour ago and the wetness around his knees was just one more source of discomfort. His body throbbed where pieces of shattered glass and splintered wood pressed against his skin. Grey smoke wafted in over his head. He chocked and dust and debris fell from his hair. Another wave of grey smoke burned in his eyes. A violent coughing fit made his upper body jerk back.

“Oh fucking hell. Shit. Cut!”

Morten’s booming voice echoed of the stone walls of Bicester base.

“The bloody damn camera just died on us. Take a break everyone.”

Benedict sighed heavily. He had known this day was going to suck when he overslept this morning. He lifted himself of the floor. Across the set director Morten Tyldum and cinematographer Oscar Faura had a heated argument with both of them gesturing wildly.

“What’s wrong?”

Phil Booth, the first assistant director, handed him a bottle of water.

“Not sure. The camera screen turned black mid scene and Oscar can’t turn it back on. Seems the darn thing is broken.”

“How long till we can resume shooting?”

“Don’t know. If the technician can’t fix it within the next 15 min or so they’re going to call in Maiya. She’s shooting second unit at Bletchley Park.”

Benedict rubbed his eyes and began massaging his temples with his thumb and ring finger.

“That’s an hour drive. Phil, you know that I have to leave the set by 5 pm.”

“I know, Ben, I know. You didn’t have any lunch yet, right? Eat something. I’ll be over with an update in ten, ‘kay?”

In his trailer Benedict went straight for his phone. Still no reply from Tom. Benedict had left two voice messages and a text.

“Don’t they take lunch breaks at the Donmar? It’s 3 pm!”

If he wanted his box there was no way around it. He had to ring Tom’s landline even if Fran was most likely the one answering it. It wasn’t that Benedict didn’t want to talk to Fran. He wanted to far too much. After Olivia had broken up with him and Sherlock turned into an overnight success Benedict had made two rules about dating: “Never date an actress you’re currently working with.” and “Never date a Cumberbabe.”

The first was an attempt to remain professional.  
The later basic self-protection.

He had met many attractive and charming women doing press for his various projects. The majority of them were smart enough to distinguish between fiction and reality yet to some level they all thought they knew him. Too many people in his life had tried to fit him in one box or the other.   
Boarding school boy.   
Period actor.   
Stuck-up snob.   
He had no desire to end up in yet another box labeled “Catch made”.

But then there was Tom. They had been friends for years. Much to their delight their careers had taken a similar path. Benedict was fortunate enough to have a handful of friends who went through thick and thin with him. Who had known him before he was successful. But Tom understood some aspects of his life better than anyone else he knew.   
How torn he was every time he missed an important family event because he worked half way across the world.   
How he had felt guilty about wasting the hard earned money his parents spent on his education by choosing to become an actor.   
How self-conscience he got when hundreds of girls screamed his name.  
Tom would never have set him up with Fran if he didn't think they were a potential match.

Benedict dialed before he could change his mind again.

“I’m sorry but Tom is on a plane to Australia. That’s why he’s turned his phone off. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Ah, dammit. Not really, no. I have forgotten something I need at home and Tom has a spare key.”

“What does your key look like? Tom only takes his house keys with him when he travels. He has a bit of an obsession with losing his key ring. Most likely I have your spare key here.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not that important.”

“If you are worried about me sneaking in your stuff I just want to add that Luke made me sign a NDA when I moved in here. It also includes – quote – any and all information about family, friends and colleagues I acquire during the course of my employment with Mr. Hiddleston – unquote. Not that I would do such a thing anyway but I am also legally prohibited from snapping a pic of your bedroom and tweeting it.”

“Benedict, are you still there?”

“Yes, yes, I am. I didn’t think you would do such a thing. I just realized how stupid it will sound if I tell you what I need.”

“Try me.”

“My dad is a huge Indiana Jones fan and my American agent helped me buy one of the original scripts from “ _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_ ”. It belonged to Kathleen Switzer who was Steven Spielberg’s assistant. The script is covered with production notes and Mrs. Switzer had Steven sign it after the shoot wrapped. I wanted to give it to my dad as a birthday present last week. But then I heard that Harrison Ford was going to be a guest on the Graham Norton Show the same day I was invited to. I’d like to ask Harrison if he could also sign it and then I’ll give it to dad as a Christmas gift. But this morning I overslept and I forgot the script at home. Unfortunately I don’t have time to stop by my flat before the show. I wanted to ask Tom if he can fetch the script and send it to the ITV tower by courier.”

“I could use a break from studying. If you want me to I’d be happy to get it.”

“Would you? The script is in a blue cardboard box. It must be either on the kitchen table or upstairs in the study. I’m pretty sure I left it in the kitchen though.”

Benedict described his key and gave Fran directions to his house.

“I should be at the studio no later than 6:30 pm. Thank you so much for helping me out.”

“No problem. And Benedict?”

“What?”

“You realize that there was no need to tell me how you plan on fanboying Harrison Ford later tonight, right? You could have just asked for the blue box. See you in a bit.”

Benedict stared at the phone, the dialing tone blaring from the speaker.

“Oh god, what have I gotten myself into?”

 

 

 

 

Fran looked up the 3-storey terraced house. The red brick façade was simple only the white columns marking the corners of the large oriel windows set it apart from the other houses on the street.

Fran's hand trembled and it took several attempts till she could unlock the front door. She climbed the stairs to the second floor. Just as with Tom’s place no name plate gave away who lived behind the white door.

Her bag made a soft thudding sound when she dropped it on the polished wood floor. Fran took a couple of deep breaths. Whether she was out of breath from jogging up the stairs or plain nervous she couldn’t tell.

“ _I really shouldn’t be here. Alone.”_

When the sound of blood swooshing through her ears died down Fran realized how soundless the apartment was. No clattering in the heating pipes. No whistling of an old water boiler. Not even the faint street noises that the windows in Tom’s apartment let in.

The door to the room ahead of her was ajar. A large chocolate colored leather sofa stretched along the left wall opposite from the fire place. Two throw pillows crammed into the far off corner of the sofa still held the shape of the head that had rested on them the night before. A smaller version of the sofa upholstered in cream colored fabric filled the nook underneath the windows. Several books and a used tea cup on top of a small plate cluttered the polished oak wood coffee table.

A buzzing sound from her back pocket startled Fran.

“Are you there yet?”   
_Sent by Isa at 16:05_

“Just arrived. The living room is pretty nice. Benedict is like me. He leaves his cup on the table when he goes to bed at night.”   
_Sent by Fran at 16:06_

“A match made in heaven.”   
_Sent by Isa at 16:07_

Fran walked down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen. Its left side was covered floor to ceiling with a white bookshelf. Old and new books, souvenirs and pictures covered the boards. She stopped to survey the pictures, none of them looking familiar. She could roughly date them by the way Benedict wore his hair but recognized none of the occasions they were taken. One of the pictures showed Benedict arm in arm with a petite blonde whose eyes were full of admiration for Benedict. Judging by his black, slicked back hair the picture could not have been older than a couple of months, taken some time during the promotion for “Star Trek: Into Darkness”. Fran picked up the picture and ran her finger over Benedict’s face.

_“If only I could be this close to you…”_

Fran sighed and put the picture back in its place realizing her finger had left a trail in the thin dust layer on the glass.

_“Shit.”_

Pulling her cardigan over her hand she wiped the glass clean hoping that Benedict wouldn't notice that this particular frame was less dusty than the others.

Then she entered the kitchen which instantly looked familiar.

“Guess what. Tom and Benedict have the same kitchen cabinets! Only Benedict’s worktop is made of yellow tiles where Tom has wood. No sign of the blue box though. Must be upstairs.”   
_Sent by Fran at 16:09_

Fran went back into the hallway and up another flight of stairs. A small study and the master bedroom shared the space that the living room occupied on the lower level. She glanced around the study but saw no blue box.

_“Come on, Benedict, where did you leave that box?”_

Fran lifted a book here and a stack of papers there careful not to cause too much disorder. It would be just her luck if Benedict thought she had gone through his belongings.

“The box is not in the study either. What do I do now?”   
_Sent by Fran at 16:16_

“Call him and ask where else it could be.”   
_Sent by Isa at 16:17_

“I don’t have his number.”   
_Sent by Fran at 16:17_

“Why?”   
_Sent by Isa at 16:18_

“Cause he didn’t give it to me. Duh.”   
_Sent by Fran at 16:19_

“Tweet James Rhodes. ‘Hey James, I’m at Benedict’s place and I can’t find the box he sent me for. Can you please tell him to call me?’ :-)”   
_Sent by Isa at 16:20_

“Ha ha. Very funny. There are only two more rooms left. I’ll just check there.”   
_Sent by Fran at 16:21_

Unlike the rest of the apartment the floor in the master bedroom was covered with a soft caramel colored carpet. Curtains of the same color with brown stripes adorned the window. A build-in closet covered the entire wall to the right of the window. One of the doors was open with the shirt rack and the tie drawer both pulled out.

The faintest remainder of male cologne hung in the air. Fran moaned when she exhaled. The king-size bed was not made on the left side where Benedict must have slept. On top of the scrunched up duvet Fran finally found the blue box partially covered by purple pin stripped pyjama pants.

_“You’ve got to be kidding me.”_ She looked up to the ceiling. _“What have I ever done to piss you off, Cupid?”_

Fran ran her hand over the soft cotton of the pants and regretted it immediately when the muscles in her lap tightened painfully. Images of her body entangled with Benedict’s on the very bed in front of her flashed before her eyes. Fran felt herself get wet and whimpered. _“Bloody hell. I need to get out of here.”_

Grabbing the box she ran downstairs to retrieve her bag. She hardly stopped long enough to lock the front door again and made for the tube station as quickly as she could all the while wondering how her body would be affected by Benedict if the mere touch of his clothing triggered such a strong reaction.

“If I ever get my hands on Benedict’s pyjama pants again he better be present too.”   
_Sent by Fran at 16:44_

“Excuse you?”   
_Sent by Isa at 16:44_

“The box. It was on his bed. With his PJ on top.”   
_Sent by Fran at 16:45_

“Pictures or it didn’t happen.”   
_Sent by Isa at 16:45_

“I already left again. On the tube to the ITV towers now. Maybe next time.”   
_Sent by Fran at 16:46_

 

 

 

 

“Can I buy you a pint, mate? Maybe if you’re a bit drunk you’ll let me in on Sherlock’s secret after all.”

James Whitehall and Benedict walked down the hallway from their dressing rooms toward the reception area of the London studios.

“Maybe next time, James. It’s been a very long day and I just want to get home. We’ll have a drink together when I come to see your show. Don’t forget to send those tickets you promised to my agent. Sorry but I have to pick up something at the receptionist’s desk.”

Benedict patted James’ back and crossed to a large steel and glass counter where two receptionists were obviously getting ready to call it a day.

“Mr. Cumberbatch, how may I be of assistance?”

“My, ahm,…” he searched for the right word to use. “A friend should have sent over a courier with a box but I cannot find it in my dressing room. Did you by any chance hold on to it?”

“I don’t think so but let me check just to be sure. Nina, has anyone left a box for Mr. Cumberbatch with you?”

“A box, not that I remem… Hang on. There was a young lady here earlier tonight who said she had a delivery for Mr. Cumberbatch. She didn’t have a ticket or backstage pass so I couldn’t let her in. She wouldn’t leave her package either. I think she said she’d wait down the hall in the café. But that was at least 2 hours ago. I’m not sure she is still there.”

 

_“Why would she wait here all evening long?”_ Benedict wondered as he approached the studio café.

Only a handful of people were sitting scattered around the room but even in a crowd Benedict would have spotted Fran in an instant. Her hair was mostly covered by a bandana tied on top of her head. Its red color was a perfect match for her lipstick, the cherries printed on her white cardigan, and the cigarette pants she wore. She had her feet propped up on the chair next to her and a large text book laid on her thighs. She tapped her pencil in rhythm with the music she listened to on her headphones. On the table next to her was his blue box.

Benedict had not made it all the way to her when Fran looked up. With a big smile she took off her headphones.

“There you are. I started wondering if I had missed you.”

“Why are you here? You could have sent the box over with a courier.”

“And risk it getting lost? Not on my watch.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

Fran checked her watch.

“I was here by 5.30 so about 3 hours. Don’t worry. I brought my books and made good use of the time.”

Benedict rubbed his neck.

“I do appreciate your effort but I fear you made the trip in vain. Filming took so long that I was late for the recording even though we rode a motorbike into London. And then Harrison had to leave early. I didn’t get to talk to him in private at all.”

Fran placed her book on the table and got up. She fetched the blue box and handed it to Benedict.

“I guess it’s a good thing you told me that little story earlier today after all. A word of caution: Mr. Ford may think I’m your assistant. Not that I said as much but I didn’t correct him either when he assumed it.”

Benedict’s eyes went from Fran to the box and back to Fran.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I sort of bumped into him when he left. Since I still had your box I assumed you hadn’t had a chance to tell him about it. I hope I did the right thing…”

Fran took the lid off the box, her gaze fixed on Benedict. Harrison’s distinct all caps scribble filled the entire right bottom corner of the script.

“DEAR TIMOTHY.   
QUITE THE SON YOU GOT THERE.   
MERRY X-MAS.   
HARRISON FORD”

“I… How… I don’t know what to say.”

“That you’re not mad at me would be a good start.”

“Mad at you? Why would I be mad?”

Benedict wrapped his left arm around Fran hugging her as tight as he could. He pressed his lips on her temple.

“Thank you so very much. You have no idea how much that means to me.” he whispered against her hair.

When he felt Fran stiffening in his embrace he let go.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn't have done that.”

Only then did he see the grin on Fran’s face.

“No, it’s alright I guess. Just unexpected.”

Fran played with one of the buttons on her cardigan.

“I think I better head home now. I’m writing my first exam tomorrow morning.”

“At least let me give you a lift. After all it’s just around the corner from my place.”

Fran gathered her belongings in a black handbag embroidered with skull shaped cherries.

“Good to go.”

“After you, dear.”

Benedict placed his hand on the small of her back leading Fran toward the car park where a driver was waiting for him. Fran bit her lower lip so as not to moan.

_‘Thirty minutes. That’s all you have to get through, Fran. Then you can let go. Thirty minutes…’_

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. Please forgive any spelling or grammar errors.


End file.
